Deduction, Design and Daring
by castielsgrace
Summary: *Contains spoilers from up until and including the Reichenbach Fall* Sherlock Holmes had never been one for friends. He could never seem to hang onto them until John Watson stumbled his way to 221b Baker Street. Over time John stopped being his replacement skull and became a vital companion. One that, unfortunately, made Sherlock's return from the dead harder than it ought to be.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes. The world's first—and only—consulting detective. With one glance he could tell you what you were doing a month ago, with one conversation your life story. Unlike most of the people he met seemed to believe, Sherlock did not have an "off button". He observed, it was what his brain was trained to do. He couldn't simply decide not to see, and it was in no way his fault that he saw what others could not. Telling them was simply something he had gotten used to from the years of bullying he faced when he was forced to attend school. Those retched years of pointless lessons and endless harassment forced him to find alternative methods of scaring off his enemies, seeing his near constant state of illness left him weakened and vulnerable. Unfortunately, this started his nasty habit of immediately stating his observations, something that was apparently very intrusive and offensive.

All of this led to Sherlock being forced into almost complete isolation. Despite how hard he tried—and he did try, even if it didn't seem like it – he could not seem to hold a steady friendship. If Sherlock really looked into it he supposed this was why he no longer felt sexually attracted to anyone, male or female. One can only deal with so much rejection before choosing to instead focus on more important things than petty relationships. Like Work. Work was probably the most important thing in Sherlock's life. It more or less _was_ his life.

Sure, the police weren't Sherlock's favorite people, but life was _so_ _boring_ without Work. He couldn't begin to understand why people all wanted so much free time; it was so painfully boring _all the time_. Even his experiments were boring, especially with murderers and unsolved crimes still lingering all throughout London. It was such a rush for him, figuring out these mysteries that his brain and his brain alone could solve.

Sherlock had pretty much expected to spend his days alone. He'd tried to find flatmates, tried to "socialize with the public" as his brother had suggested, but he always managed to let his deductions slip, and whomever he had been talking to would call him an ignorant prat before stomping off. Some of the girls would slap him, some of the guys would attempt to hit him, but it always ended in the same way. Up until he met Doctor John Watson.

For the first time, Sherlock felt… appreciated. John didn't think he was a freak like most of the detectives he was forced to work with, he didn't think he was annoying, and he didn't think he was rude. He thought Sherlock's talents were brilliant, which truly was a refreshing experience. Since the first day, John had accepted him for everything that he was. From his skull to the head in their fridge, John was patient, and Sherlock appreciated that more than John would ever know.

Now Sherlock was not a sentimental man. He no longer cared to look for friendships or 'love', nor did he care that he lacked it for most of his life. However, Sherlock had to admit he had grown to like John. He couldn't help but realise that, for the first time, he had found himself a… well; he had found himself a companion. 221b was livelier since John arrived, and Sherlock had to admit he was happier with the man here. At the very least he could finally talk to a person and not a skull. Walking around London talking to a skull apparently caused some concern with tourists, among others.

However, with being the world's only consulting detective came the complications of his job. He was constantly putting his life in danger, and more often than he'd like to admit, Sherlock would drag John down with him. Now Sherlock had never minded the… sacrifices that had to be made for his Work. He never cared if there were casualties. However, he could not lie and say that he didn't panic when he saw those bombs draped over John. For the first time in a very long time, Sherlock's brain had stopped. All he knew was that he had to get John out of the retched thing. The logical part of his brain seemed to just… freeze.

That was when Sherlock first realized that he had gained a fondness of the man. He wasn't simply a companion, a replacement for the skull. He was a friend. Potentially Sherlock's first genuine friend. This complicated things. It complicated everything, in fact. As things intensified with Moriarty, he worried more about what would happen to John in the inevitable end that he knew was forthcoming.

When the time came where he was forced to choose between John's life and his own, Sherlock didn't hesitate. It took no more than a second of thought, even if he outwardly tried to think of other possible solutions. Lying to the man had been hard. Sherlock didn't want to lose the trust they shared, nor did he want to move back into the isolation he had so recently crawled out of, but the only way he could keep John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hadson safe was to fake his own death.

Now, as his finger hovered over the "send" button, Sherlock hesitated. He knew John had moved on. He had asked Mycroft to keep him updated, to make sure John was safe. He had moved on, seemingly forgotten his adventures with Sherlock in exchange for a steady job at his practice. His blog hadn't been touched since John's entry of their last case, rightly titled "The Reichenbach Fall"… the fall of the great Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock knew it would be better to leave him be. It had been nearly eight months since John's confession at his gravestone, and Sherlock knew showing his existence again after such a long period of time would likely result in an outrage from John. He needed the man, however, and he would stop at nothing to get him back. Without him Sherlock discovered he was much to rash. He couldn't tell when he was being too mean, when he was treading too far. He needed John to hold him straight, keep him levelled.

So, despite his better judgement, Sherlock hit send. He stared at the luminous screen of his phone and reread his message. Potentially too simple, but old habits most certainly die hard, even in the case of Sherlock Holmes.

_John. Important new case, please come if convenient. 221b Baker Street. 12:00. - SH_

* * *

_A/N:_ Alright, so the first paragraph or so of this story wouldn't quit nagging at my brain after my Sherlock marathon the other evening, and I couldn't help but write this introduction. If it's well received, I will most likely continue it, otherwise it will forever be a one-shot. Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you thought! :)


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N:_ Second update in just as many days! Unfortunately, I wouldn't get too used to it. I'm hoping the other chapters will be longer, and I do attend school full time which really leaves me with less writing time than I'd like to have. However, I'll try my best to upload frequently! I hope you enjoy~

* * *

Sherlock paced impatiently. It was only eleven and yet he was already having second thoughts about texting John. He hadn't received a reply back, and he had a strong feeling John wouldn't show up. The man hadn't texted back, nor had he called. Sherlock wasn't even sure that John had received the message, but he would wait all the same. Just in case.

Mrs. Hadson came into the room, slowly entering through the kitchen. "Oh, Sherlock. Stop pacing, will you? I can hear it all the way downstairs."

Sherlock simply hummed in reply, moving back towards the couch and grabbing his violin. He plucked a few of the strings, but felt no urge to play. He just needed to keep himself busy somehow.

"Sherlock I'm sure he'll come, stop fussing about and just relax."

"Mrs. Hadson if _I_ am not sure he's going to show up, there is no way _you_ can be sure." He took a deep breath, "So if you could please just leave me alone until his expected arrival time, it would be greatly appreciated."

"Now, Sherlock. You know I'm only trying to help. Not right seeing you worrying like this about—"

"_Mrs. Hadson_," Sherlock yelled. The small woman took a step back, her eyes flying wide. Sherlock's outbursts had become more frequent as of late, likely because of his anxiousness upon seeing his old friend—even if he would never admit to it. "_Leave._"

Just before Mrs. Hadson could reply, the doorbell rang. Sherlock glanced down at his watch. It was still forty-five minutes before he was expecting John. It was unlikely that it would be the shorter man, but not impossible. Sherlock sat down in his chair, pulling his violin back out and pretending to ignore the look of annoyance Mrs. Hadson was currently giving him.

"Oh, fine. Be stubborn, then. I don't understand you boys, I really don't." She headed back down the stairs. Sherlock listened closely for the click of the knob being turned. Upon hearing Mrs. Hadson's excitement, he knew that John had in fact decided to show up. He ignored the minor skip in his heartbeat, instead choosing to focus on plucking aimlessly at the strings of his violin. He listened for the footsteps on the staircase. Only one set, and much to heavy for Mrs. Hadson. John Watson was about to entire flat 221b Baker Street for the first time since Sherlock's death. Really rather dramatic, Sherlock had to admit.

"John, you came. Good," Sherlock didn't look up, he saw no need to. A few months had passed, yes, but things could easily return to how they had been before. No need to change his habits now. "I've got a triple homicide on my hands, and could definitely use the help of an army doctor."

"Sherlock." His name sounded different than usual. Much too dark. Sherlock looked up, trying to keep himself indifferent even as he saw the aging in John's face, obviously caused from stress. Stress and mourning.

"Yes, John? What is it?" Sherlock stood, "And can it wait? I have a lot to fill you in on."

"No, no I don't think it can."

Sherlock sighed, "Fine, what?"

"You may want to put your violin down?"

Oh. Oh he got it now. John was planning to take some anger out. Of course, Sherlock had almost forgotten; Sentiment. People and their feelings could get so _annoying_. Regardless, he placed his violin back on the couch. "Now, John. Do you really think this is nec—" Sherlock grunted as John's fist hit his stomach. The wind was knocked out of him, and he stumbled back, grabbing helplessly onto the back of the chair and struggling for air. That one had definitely hurt.

"John—" Sherlock wheezed, "If you would—if you—minute to explain—" Another fist flew his way. He managed to move, but not enough to avoid the blow completely as John's hand collided with his cheek. Mrs. Hadson had appeared in the doorway yet again, yelling and complaining about the fighting happening in her flat.

John didn't stop though, oh no. He moved to where Sherlock was still supporting himself and grabbed a handful of the man's shirt, pushing him back until he was pressed against the fireplace. The skull was visible out of the corner of Sherlock's eye, and he was really starting to wish he had just stuck with it.

"How _dare _you!" Shouted John, "You—you _jump off a building_, making everyone think you're dead—there was a _body_, Sherlock!—and then you text me out of the blue months later expecting what? That I'd just drop everything to come follow you around like a lost puppy again?"

"John, I don't think you quite understand."

"What is there to understand, Sherlock?" John asked impatiently. Despite his shorter build, he was still rather intimidating. "You faked your death and didn't think to tell _anyone_, then out of no where you decide that things can be just as they were before."

"John—"

"Do you know what kind of grief you caused? Mrs. Hadson, Lestrade… me!" John sighed, "We wouldn't have cared if you had done it Sherlock, but you lied to us!"

"_John!_" Sherlock shouted, pushing back for the first time and catching him off balance. "I did what I had to do to stop Moriarty and to keep you all safe. I knew what was going on, I always knew. Moriarty wasn't ever ahead of me, but I had to have him _believe_ he was. I had to convince _you_ he was right or you all would've _died_."

"And why could we still not know at your funeral, or a month after that?"

"It was too risky. I couldn't assure your safety, nor could I assure my own." Sherlock brushed himself off, side-stepping John and making his way over to Mrs. Hadson. He lightly placed a hand on her arm, giving her a reassuring smile. "It's fine now, you can go back downstairs."

"No fighting, boys. Not in my flat." She told them once more. Sherlock closed the door behind her before spinning to face John again.

"I am sorry, John, but you must understand that I thought of every possibility. If I could've told you sooner, I would have."

John fell into the closest chair, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing at his eyes. "Why did you tell me at all, Sherlock? After all this time, why bother?"

"Who else is tolerant enough to be my flatmate?"

"I can't just come back here, Sherlock." John shook his head, "I have a practice now, a girlfriend. A _steady _girlfriend. Do you really expect me to leave all that behind?"

"Your limp is back."

"What?"

"Your limp," Sherlock pointed out, "The psychosomatic limp you had. It only returns when you're bored, unhappy with the events of your life. Hence psychosomatic."

"What does that matter, Sherlock?"

"You miss it. You miss the crimes, the running, the _danger_." He smirked, "Admit it, John, you miss it."

"Even if that's true, I can't just _leave_ my flat and come live here. What am I supposed to tell Kate?"

"Bring her with you."

"Really Sherlock?" John sighed, "Do you really think just anyone would be okay with finding a foot in the shower?"

"Tell her something's come up." Sherlock waved his hand, "Business emergency, sick family, long lost friendship reunion. Come back for a week, that's all I ask. Just until I solve this case."

"You want me to lie to my girlfriend?"

"Oh people do it all the time, John. Don't act like it's a big deal."

"I don't, Sherlock."

"Fine!" He rubbed his temples in frustration, "Tell her the truth then, it's only a week. I think she can live without you for that long."

"What if I don't want to come back?"

"As I said, you miss the danger. The thrill of it, John, you _need_ it."

"Maybe I just don't want to be around _you_." John stood again, "I know you don't have emotions, Sherlock, but the rest of us do."

"Oh don't be so sentimental."

"Goodbye, Sherlock." John headed for the door, and Sherlock panicked. This was not how it was supposed to go.

"I'm going to the crime scene tomorrow, John. If you change your mind meet me at Big Ben at nine. I'll wait for you regardless of your decision, so just don't bother answering. Think about it for a bit."

John didn't answer, instead simply walking away. Sherlock had no idea if he would show up tomorrow. However, he would wait. He would always wait for John.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N:_ Apparently, I am on a role with this story. Unfortunately, I won't be able to continue my streak because I have to work tomorrow, but I'll try my best to get a chapter up on Wednesday! I also apologize for spelling Mrs. Hudson's name wrong. I've been watching Sherlock as I write this, and to me it always sounds like Sherlock says "Mrs. Hadson", so I just wrote what I heard. Apologies! I also hope you enjoy this chapter! I made it a bit longer than the last one. Not considerably, but I liked the way this one ended so I thought I'd cut it a bit shorter than I was initially planning. Thank you for taking the time to review, favorite and follow, and I truly hope you continue to enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it!

* * *

Ten to. Sherlock looked around impatiently. There still wasn't any sign of John, so it was likely he wouldn't be showing up. However, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to leave. Just the minuscule possibility of John showing up at all made him stay. He subconsciously brushed his fingers across the darkening bruise on his cheekbone. Yet again, he found himself wondering if there was a better way he could've told John he wasn't actually dead. Sherlock had never seen the man so angry.

He just couldn't understand why it was a problem at all, however. Sherlock was fine, isn't that all that matters? Yes, he was missing for some time; yes he caused a grievance, but _really_. He never would understand this sentiment that everyone seemed to fuss about.

Another glance at his watch. Two minutes. John was supposed to arrive in two minutes time, and yet Sherlock didn't see the shorter man anywhere in the crowd. Sherlock supposed he wasn't too surprised. Not after the previous day's events. Still, he had hoped the craving John had for it all would be enough. Unfortunately, it was one of the rare cases in which Sherlock Holmes was wrong. Or so he thought.

Just before he was about to give up and call a cab, he caught a glimpse of what looked like one of John's sweaters. Sherlock stood on his toes, lifting himself as far above the crowd as he could and looking for the one familiar face. He spotted him a couple of feet away, and Sherlock had the temptation to push through the crowd. He managed to restrain and instead pulled out his phone.

_We're on our way. – SH_

_We? – GL_

_Yes "we". John and I. – SH_

_He actually forgave you? – GL_

Sherlock decided not to dignify this response with an answer. John had spotted him now and was making his way through the crowd. Sherlock slipped his phone back into his coat pocket, closing the few steps between him and John, while still leaving a good foot between them.

"John, you came. Good." Sherlock started walking towards the street, "Lestrade is waiting."

"Sherlock, hang on."

He didn't stop. He was worried what would happen if he did. "What is it, now? We really do need to hurry since you were late."

"Sherlock, _stop_." John said firmly. He had stopped moving himself, crossing his arms over his chest uncomfortably.

Sherlock turned around, taking two of his large steps back to where John was. "What is so important that we have to permit Anderson an even longer time on the crime scene than necessary? Who knows what he's trying to deduct right now."

"I'm only here because Kate insisted I come."

"Okay, brilliant. I'm glad she was supportive, now let's go." Sherlock turned again, but stopped when John grabbed his coat sleeve. It was the first contact he'd had with the man—non-violent contact, anyway—since that day.

"She wants you to come over for dinner tonight. After we've finished with the case."

Sherlock shook his head. "You know I don't eat on cases, John."

"Then you can leave. On your own." The shorter man showed no signs of bluffing. He genuinely would not come along unless Sherlock promised he would attend dinner. Something he _never_ did. His appetite always offended people, and they never enjoyed the way he would observe his food before ingesting it. It wasn't his fault Mycroft had always tried putting supplements in his food when he was a child. It made you cautious.

John started to walk off, and before Sherlock knew what was happening, he was grabbing for the other man. "Fine, John! Fine!"

John smiled, "Good. Now let's go."

* * *

"John, great to see you!" Sherlock walked briskly past Lestrade and onto the crime scene. This was the fourth in equally as many days. Not usually Sherlock's type of case, except for the fact each of the victims were missing one vital thing; their eyes. It was clear on each of the bodies that they had been violently gorged out of their sockets, and yet there was no sign of a struggle. Originally, the police believed it was simply performed after death, but the autopsies—and Sherlock—proved that theory wrong.

"Yes, you too." Sherlock heard John say from behind him. He bent down, examining the sockets closely. Whoever the killer was, he had a high degree in medical training. The wounds would have caused a lot of pain, but they were carefully done. The killer knew where to hit to make them scream and he made sure only to hit those points.

"I'm surprised you're back, to be completely honest." This person was clever. Clever and very, very careful. Even the way the bodies were laid. Always the same, down to the position of their fingers. So far, each of them had been from out of town. No farther than Cardiff and none of them planning to stay for long. Most likely only a day trip. But _how_? How did this man get them to trust him enough to lead them into a darkened ally, and how did he rip out their eyes without any sign of a struggle?

"It's temporary." There were no traces of alcohol on their breaths, no detectable drugs in their system, so _how_? Sherlock knew they would've been in pain. They _would_ have put up a fight.

"How temporary?" Sherlock paused. He had been ignoring Lestrade and John's conversation up until this point.

John didn't hesitate before answering, "Only today."

"Really? Ah, such a pity. Sherlock is so much worse without you. He's always complaining. I'm surprised Anderson and the rest of them haven't killed him yet."

Sherlock cleared his throat, "Yes, alright. That's enough of that."

"Well, what'd you find?"

"It's exactly the same as the last one. Every detail." Sherlock began pacing, "Not a single mistake, not one fault in his execution."

"Great. So any ideas as to how he does it yet?"

"Seven," Sherlock stated, "But I'll need more time. Are the rest of the bodies already at the mortuary?"

"Yeah."

"Good, bring this one there as soon as possible." Sherlock turned back to John, "Ready to go?"

"Oh, no." He shook his head, "No, no, no. We are not going to a _mortuary_ before dinner. Kate will kill you. She'll kill _me!_"

"What else are we supposed to do, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock glanced down at his watch, "It's only half past ten. I highly doubt your girlfriend would appreciate us showing up six hours early."

"Sherlock," Lestrade cut in, "A word?"

He pulled him aside, just out of hearing distance from John. He lowered his voice anyway, looking at Sherlock with a very stern expression. "Why don't you take him for a cuppa? You need to talk to him or he's never going to forgive you."

"What are you talking about? Things are fine."

"Really?" Lestrade laughed, "You make deductions from observation, right? Well why don't you observe John for a minute?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock followed his suggestion. At a glance, there was nothing different about the man, but the more he looked, the more obvious John's displeasure was. He showed up, yes, but only on the guidance and urging of his girlfriend. He wasn't happy to be there, to be back, and he was quite clearly looking forward to leaving by the amount of times he would glance at his watch.

"Fine, I see your point. But what about the case?"

"Sherlock it's not going to matter if you miss _one_ day. In fact, in may be better. We don't know for sure if the killer is running on a pattern or not."

"He is."

"Sherlock," Lestrade warned, "Go. That's an order. You are banned from my crime scene and the mortuary for the remainder of today."

"If Anderson—"

"I will make sure Anderson doesn't touch the bodies. Now _leave_."

* * *

"Why are we at a coffee shop?"

Sherlock didn't look back at him, instead moving straight for a table, "Lestrade suggested we 'talk'."

"What is there to talk about?" He didn't sit.

"John, surely you don't think I'm blind, do you?"

"You already know everything."

"Just sit, will you?" Sherlock gestured to the seat across from him. There was a moment of hesitation but John obeyed. Neither of the men said anything. A waiter moved to their table and smiled happily down at them. Sherlock didn't give him the chance to speak, immediately placing his order. "Two coffees. One part cream two parts sugar, the other with just cream."

"Anything else?"

"A plate of biscuits." The waiter nodded and headed off. Sherlock hadn't moved his gaze from John. He continued to stare, not knowing where to start. He didn't _do_ emotions, what did people not understand about that? They were just so meaningless to him.

John cleared his throat, "Well?"

"Why are you still angry with me?"

"You really can be ignorant, can't you?" John asked, "For a genius you can be really _stupid_ sometimes."

"…Because I wanted to make sure you were safe before returning?"

"No, Sherlock. It's because you try to pretend like everything is perfectly fine when it's _not_." He took a deep breath, obviously trying not to let his anger get the better of him again. "You say you know what we went through, but I really don't think you do. You don't react the same when you lose someone. You don't feel the same things as we do, so you have no idea what it was like for us. Have you ever watched someone commit suicide, Sherlock? It's not a pleasant thing to watch. I had to stand there, helplessly, and listen to you say what I thought would be the last words I would ever hear from you.

"And once that was over, I had to watch you fall. I had to just _stand there_ and _watch_ as your body—or what I thought was your body—hit the pavement. Then I had to go to your funeral. The one where no one showed up because _you_ wanted me to tell everyone you were a fraud even though you _knew_ I didn't believe it for a second."

"John, you have to understand—"

"No, Sherlock. I don't have to understand anything." Another deep breath, yet he was calmer now. Maybe letting him explain was a good idea. "That's not what I meant. I mean I _do_ understand. You did it because you thought you had to. It doesn't change the fact that it _hurt_. I didn't know what to do for the longest time, and then just as I was getting my life back together, here you are. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Sherlock. I don't know how to react to this."

Their coffees were placed in front of them along with the plate of biscuits, but the waiter knew better than to say anything. Sherlock was quiet for a while, simply watching John stir at his coffee. When Sherlock did speak, it was something he had never even thought to admit to himself, never mind the man in front of him. "I missed you, John. I _did_ want to tell you right after—before I faked it even, but I couldn't. It was… hard."

He didn't look at the Doctor. Rarely did Sherlock speak his feelings; rarely did he have any of importance to speak. He knew it wasn't something John was expecting him to say, and the silence that rang seemed to go on forever.

"Why was I the last to know?" John asked. His voice was quieter than usual, but his tone was… patient. The traces of anger that had lingered were all but gone and Sherlock felt a wave of relief wash over him.

"You were the hardest to tell." He admitted, "Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were easy to predict. I knew how to tell each of them without causing problems. But you… you were too difficult to figure out."

Again, John said nothing. However, the silence was comfortable now and Sherlock knew that, even if things weren't going to return to normal right away, his relationship with John would eventually return to how it was. More or less.

* * *

"You must be the great Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock smiled, accepting the hand of the brunette. She was only slightly shorter than him, and her grip was firm. "I have heard _so_ much about you."

"Kate," John scoffed.

"Well I have!" She giggled and the sound made Sherlock's skin crawl. She was one of the high-pitched gigglers. Not his favorite. "Well what are we all doing standing around? I'm just about to put supper on the table. Come, sit!"

Sherlock allowed himself to be lead into a rather nice dining area, for a one bedroom flat. John attempted to sit at the head of the table, only to be scolded by Kate, who insisted that was the guests' spot. They looked happy, Sherlock observed. John looked happy. Just like before the media got involved in their cases. It was the John he was so used to seeing, but it was no longer the same thing that brought them joy. He had to admit it wasn't an easy thing to see.

"Would I be able to use your toilet, just before we sit down to eat?"

"Yes, of course! It's just down the hall and to your left. I'm afraid we've only got the master suite, though," She bit her lip, "I do apologize for the mess, I really should've tidied a bit before you arrived."

Sherlock smiled, "Oh I'm sure it won't be a problem." He headed in the direction she had pointed him and opened the door to their bedroom. It was quite clean, however he could see the slight messy tendencies John had gained whilst living with Sherlock. Their dresser was the best example. The top three drawers were closed firmly, but the bottom two were slightly opened. Just as he was about to brush it off, Sherlock caught a glimpse of something in one of the drawers belonging to John. He glanced over his shoulder, pausing to listen for footsteps before moving towards the dresser. He bent down and gently grabbed the item of interest. His suspicions were correct; it was his scarf. The blue one he had grown so fond of but had had to give up to make his death convincing. Why had John kept this? Sherlock could still see a few traces of dried blood on it… John hadn't even washed it. Why?

"He wouldn't let go of that. Not for months." Sherlock spun around to find Kate leaning against the door frame.

He looked down at the scarf in his hand guiltily, "I didn't mean to pry..."

"I know what you're like Mr. Holmes. I'm sure you saw it in his drawer, right?" Sherlock nodded, "Yeah, kinda figured that would happen. It's why I came to check on you."

"Why does he have it?"

"Sentiment," She sighed and moved closer to him. He felt the fabric slide through his fingertips as she took it from him, staring down at it with a mix of hatred and pity, "It was the last thing he had of you. In those first couple of months… it was pretty bad. He always had it with him, wouldn't let anyone touch it. Slowly, he let it go but occasionally… occasionally he'll dig it out of his drawer and just… stare at it. As if he's reliving what you guys had."

She hummed, handing the scarf back to him, "He hadn't pulled it out in almost a month until you texted. Then he just sat there again for almost an hour… just staring."

"I… see." Sherlock coughed.

"What, exactly, was your relationship with him?"

"He was my one friend."


End file.
